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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183057">Love's Labour's Lockdown</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall'>Englandwouldfall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>As you like it [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adulthood, And coronavirus, Another sequel, Because I Couldn't Resist, Date Night, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:36:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's twenty twenty, Cas hasn't worn any of his own damn pants for a month and the year isn't <em>exactly</em> going to plan.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>As you like it [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/225944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Love's Labour's Lockdown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Because I checked my timeline to see what these two would have been up to when all of THIS STUFF happened out of idle curiosity and then... then it all fell out of my keyboard.</p><p>Side note: I did some vague googling on what the lockdown experience has been like on t'other side of the pond, but mostly this is a by-product of my lockdown-word and what actually makes it to the UK news. Hope y'all are staying safe and sane and this doesn't feel like me gratuitously using current events, cause that wasn't the intention. Just wanted to revisit these guys for a bit, as it's been awhile since I've written anything new for them :)</p><p>(If you're forgotten where we are, we're 3 years after they got engaged &amp; 2 years since they bought their first home; they're both 28)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>June, 2020.</em>
</p><p>

“Nothing is changing, Dean,” Castiel says, muscles pulled taut with tension and irritation as he paces in front of the sofa, and Dean’s never really known what to <em>do</em> when Cas gets like this. He gets it, to a certain extent, but Cas’ capacity of righteous anger directed at the world has always been a lot bigger than Dean’s. Right now, Cas is kind of a <em>wonder</em>, with his scowl, button down, lopsided tie and a pair of Dean’s sweatpants.  He has an actual full on <em>beard</em> (which Dean is pro aesthetically, although he’s not sure it says anything good about Cas’ general mental state) for the first time in their lives and he’s been at this agitated, spouting out half sentences state since half way through their TV-dinner. His impassioned anger at the whole fucking world has always impressed, alarmed and concerned Dean in equal measure and Dean really doesn’t have a goddamn clue what he’s supposed to <em>do</em> to bring the guy back into something resembling sane. “We’re not <em>getting anywhere</em>. This ----- this -- the <em> bigotry</em> and the <em> insolence</em>.”</p><p>

“I know,” Dean says, as Cas pauses in his pacing. </p><p>

“And ---<em> we’re</em> going <em>backwards</em>, Dean. You --- you have to start over, at another job.”</p><p>

“Cas,” Dean says, “It’s not -”</p><p>

“- I’m not <em> blaming you</em>,” Cas bites out, “It’s the <em> damnable global pandemic</em> and this --- government of ignorant, <em>racist</em> ---”</p><p>

“ --- No one in this room said Donald fucking Trump was a good idea.”</p><p>
“ --- <em> people are dying</em>”</p><p>
“Castiel.”</p><p>
“This ---- <em>disease</em> and --- and this <em>institutionalised hate</em>.”</p><p>
“Cas, I fucking love you, but you stopped talking in whole sentences like twenty minutes ago. I <em>get it</em>, but I need you to calm the fuck down.”</p><p>
“<em>Dean</em>,” Castiel bites out, and then some of the tension seems to drain out from his shoulders, and then --- then he’s collapsing onto the sofa and burying his face in Dean’s lap. “We’re --- we’re <em>ready</em>, Dean.”</p><p>

“Yeah,” Dean says, smoothing a hand over his hair, then over the flesh of his neck. It’s a mark of how long and how successfully they’ve been doing this that Dean knows exactly what this is about when Cas hasn’t been making any actual sense since Dean couldn’t deal with his growing agitation any longer and turned off the damn news. “I know, Sweetheart.”</p><p>
“It’s hateful of me to make any of this <em>about me</em>.”</p><p>
“It’s not,” Dean says, gentle, “Pretty sure it’s human nature.”</p><p>

“But --- Our application didn’t <em>fall</em> to the bottom of their pile, Dean. I --- I understand that they are not reviewing anything because of this <em>damnable</em> pandemic, but it’s not simply <em>unfortunate</em> that ours wasn’t reviewed before they shut everything down. If you were a woman, we wouldn’t have been waiting for <em>six month</em> for them to acknowledge ---”</p><p>

“--- if I were a woman, a lot of things would be pretty fucking different.”</p><p>

“If Americans think protesting about haircuts is more important than protesting about innocent lives being <em> killed by our law enforcement</em>, then why should I expect that I will be allowed to adopt a child with another man? I—- I know the issues aren’t directly related, but if you were to draw a Venn diagram, there is—” </p><p>

“— a big fat overlap of prejudice,” Dean says, “I know. We have time,” Dean says, thumbs running over Castiel’s shoulders, “We’re twenty eight. Even if it takes a goddamn decade --”</p><p>

“-- I don’t <em>want</em> it to take a decade.”</p><p>

“--- Yeah,” Dean says, “I <em>know</em>, Cas, but it’s --- it’s gonna happen. And shit is changing. The fact this is <em>still</em> on the news means crap is changing. It--- it shouldn’t have taken this, I know, but. It’s gonna be okay, Cas, you’re just --- twenty twenty is a fucking shit show.”</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas says, pulling himself up and looking at him, baleful and a little pathetic, in his shirt and Dean’s-sweatpants combination. “Twenty twenty is a ‘fucking shit show’. This was supposed to be a <em>good year</em>.”</p><p>

It <em>had</em>started out good, with telling Bobby about their imminent adoption application on New Year’s Eve, while Ellen and Jo had a loud, bickering argument about Jo’s post-college plans in their front room. They’d just hosted Christmas which was pretty much awesome, even if Sam had to fly back to California before the New Year started and even though Cas’ family were their usual dick-ish selves about the whole thing (Gabriel excluded). Dean had pretty much decided that every fucking year should start with him hungover-as-hell from loosing to Jo at shots-poker, with Cas bringing him coffee in bed and saying, a little bleary too and cute as hell, that maybe they should actually get round to getting married this year, too.  </p><p>

(They’d got as far as picking a date before the massive fucking reality check of this whole <em>shitty year</em> hit and they tabled it again. One day, he’s gonna marry Cas and it’s gonna be great, but they haven’t even talked about it for two months now. In the grand scheme of priorities, it’s low. They pretty much <em>have</em> to get married before the adoption stuff is finalised because everything is way, way more complicated legally if they’re not, but if it all happens quicker than expected it’s not so difficult to get a slot at city hall, and that would be fine. He’s way more interested in the marriage part than the wedding). </p><p>

If he’d known that was the last time he’d see Bobby and Ellen and Jo for freaking <em>months</em> he probably would have spent a little less time trying to smother his hangover in Cas’ neck and a little more time actually spending time with them.</p><p>

“Well, not for nothing,” Dean says, “There’s no one else in the fuckin’ world that I’d rather be on lockdown in my damn house with.”</p><p>

“That’s true,” Castiel says, forehead creasing. “I love you.”</p><p>

“Yup, I worked that out,” Dean says, curling a hand over his knee and taking a moment to relish in how easy this physicality stuff is, after nearly seven years together. Cas exhales and leans against his shoulder like Dean’s the only thing in the damn world holding him up and --- he hates it when Cas is <em>sad</em> and there’s nothing he can freaking do about it, because he <em>can’t </em> change any of it. Whatever the hell does, there will still be racism and homophobia and the freaking coronavirus, and Cas will still be going stir-crazy and flipping between lethargic and restless so damn fast that it’s giving him whiplash. </p><p>

 “Come on. I’m taking you for a walk.”</p><p>

“I am not a dog.”</p><p>
“You haven’t left the house for four days, dude. It’s no wonder you’re going fuckin’ crazy.”</p><p>
“You’re not <em>supposed</em> to leave the house.” </p><p>
“We’re taking a walk round the block,” Dean says, standing up and raising an eyebrow at him. Cas committed pretty hard to the lockdown look, actually, but maybe some of that’s just a lesson in contrast. He’s pretty <em> used</em> to Cas being this clean shaven, put together, wonky-tied adult, these days. He’s currently a bit more mad scientist than professional office worker. “You’re allowed to exercise. Come on, Cas.”</p><p>

Cas frowns at him. He’s wearing odd socks. </p><p>

“Fine,”</p><p>

“Good dog,” Dean comments, taking his hand and pulling him up, which wins him an eye roll and a kiss on the cheek. </p><p>

Cas breaks the silence again ten minutes later, once they’ve spilled out into the suburbia they apparently live in  (their teenage selves are completely fucking horrified by how goddamn domestic they are, but Dean honestly couldn’t give a shit; he’s a square-as-hell, suburan not quite thirty year old, with a house, and a fiancé , and six months ago they put in an application for a freaking <em>baby</em>. Sometimes he’s so happy he makes himself sick).</p><p>

They haven’t actually spent a whole lot of time here since they bought the house two years ago, between the commuting and either lazy weekends of not leaving the house at all, or weekends of visiting Bobby or Charlie or Sam or Gabriel, which is at least something good to come out of these last couple of months. They’re going to raise freaking kids here, fingers crossed, and <em>now</em> Dean actually knows all the best routes to the park and is on a first name basis with a couple of their neighbours, and that something. He never had that when they were growing up, but it might just be possible for their kids. Their freaking <em>kids</em>.</p><p>

“You saw the way that woman looked at us,” Castiel says, mouth an unhappy line, brow furrowed. “I --- you saw it.”</p><p>

And Cas isn’t wrong. </p><p>

After a long ass time of talking about it and finally deciding it was the right time, it didn’t exactly fill him with optimism about how the whole thing was going to go, even if it wasn’t a surprise persay. .</p><p>

He’d reached forwarded and taken Cas’ hand in the waiting room, because Cas was nervous, and his fucking fiancé, and, anyway, fuck anyone who had a problem with Dean <em> holding someone’s hand in public </em>, but he had seen the look, because he’s seen <em> the look</em> scattered across his life, in a whole host of instances Cas would probably call homophobic microagressions, that Dean calls fucking rude. </p><p>

Dean let go of his hand. </p><p>

He doesn’t normally do that anymore. He’s been pretty a-okay with the fact that he’s into dudes for a long time, now, and he’s been a lot more than okay with the fact that he’s intending to build his life around a specific dude for years. He’s not <em> exactly </em> a PDA kinda guy but sometimes it’s just goddamn necessary to squeeze his fiancé’s knee during date night, or kiss him in the movies, or hold his fucking hand as they waited to talk to someone about how they wanted to start a family. Mostly, he either ignores <em> the look</em> all together, or passively calls them out their bullshit with a pointed look and an eyebrow raise, depending on how likely it seems the person will flush and hastily look away, rather than start some actual problem which Dean has neither the time or energy for. And, normally, Cas will smile at Dean’s efforts and they’ll make some joke about it, or he’ll go off on one of his impassioned rants about the uneducated masses, and it would just pass as another one of those things that shouldn’t really happen, but were still never quite enough to ruin your damn day.</p><p>

He doesn’t bow to those looks. Except, they were waiting to see about adopting a freaking kid, and Dean <em> dropped his hand </em>.</p><p>

It was also in <em>January</em>.</p><p>

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “There’s assholes everywhere, Cas.” </p><p>

“I want to have a baby with you,” Cas says, frowning at the pavement in Dean’s sweatpants, with his lockdown facial hair and his crazed bedhead and, yeah, Dean’s life is pretty much perfect, global pandemic and the fact that he hasn’t seen his little brother since goddamn Christmas aside. And the fact that Cas <em> isn’t doing well</em>.</p><p> 

Dean threads their hands together.</p><p>
“You wanna talk about what’s going on?” </p><p>
“No,” Cas says, not looking at him, “There’s nothing <em>going on</em>, Dean, that’s the problem. Everything’s on pause. Our <em>life</em> is on hold and --- I am fed up of working from my study and Zachariah and --- yes, I <em>know</em> that I just need to ‘hang on in there’ but --- I want <em>one</em> good day.”</p><p>

“One good day, huh?” Dean asks, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. Cas is blue eyed and melancholy and it kind of hurts when, despite it all, Dean’s really <em>freaking happy</em>. He’s not dumb. He’s known for the last couple of weeks that all of this has been getting the guy, he’s just felt a little powerless and unsure of what the hell he could do about it. </p><p>

<em>One good day</em>, though. He can do one good day. </p><p>

*</p><p>

<em>You done with your meeting?</em> Dean texts, midmorning, at the point in the day that other workplaces might have a morning break, during a fifteen minute space between meetings Cas has in his calendar (Dean’s had access to it for the past year and a half for the sole reason of knowing how many post 5PM meetings Zachariah has booked in during the damn day, to know whether or not he should start cooking yet without having to rely on Cas texting him). </p><p>

<em>Yes</em></p><p>

“Hey,” Dean says, slipping into Cas’s study with a cup of coffee and sitting on the edge of his desk.  Dean completely missed him this morning, because Cas starts work at eight AM and Dean was <em>definitely</em> dead to the world until past nine. They crossed path in the kitchen right after Dean got out of the shower, but Cas was mid-video meeting about something that sounded exceptionally dull (hearing Cas do the business talk thing is kind of wild; the guy says shit like ‘let’s table that for now’ and ‘let’s move things forward’ interspersed with the usual Cas-ism. Him working from home has been an experience), so they haven’t actually <em>talked</em> since last night. “You okay?”</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas says, peak unconvincing. Dean kinda regrets pointing out that the guy didn’t actually <em>have</em> to wear his smarmy-pants-work-pants given that video meetings tend to cut you off below the waist, because Cas has stolen <em>another</em> pair of Dean’s sweatpants. “Have you given up on shirts?”</p><p>

“Saving laundry,” Dean says, “What’s up, Cas?”</p><p>

“I am <em>fed up</em> of working from home,” Cas says, “And <em>hateful video meetings</em> and --- thank you for the coffee.”</p><p>

“There are some benefits,” Dean says, eyeing him carefully. </p><p>

“Like?”</p><p>

“Well,” Dean says, spinning Cas’ chair round and pulling it closer with his foot. “For a start, there’s your super hot, badass fiancé, who has direct access to your work calendar and a <em>lot</em> of time on his hands.”</p><p>

Cas’ mouth quirks upwards. </p><p>

“So,” Dean says, pushing himself off the edge of the desk to drop to his knees. “Fifteen minutes, huh? How could we <em>possibly</em> pass the time…?” </p><p>

*</p><p>

Dean’s having a really good day.</p><p>

That’s probably dumb, given almost everything he has planned is quasi-ridiculous and mostly pointless but… </p><p>

He’s been a little bored since his temp contract came up for renewal just at the point that the world started falling apart, and all previous “of course we want to keep you” dissolved into a shrug of <em>global pandemic.</em> Dean can’t exactly debate the fucking issue, really, and job hunting has been going exactly as he’d have expected job hunting to go in the middle of the fucking appocolypse. It’s way too freaking familiar but, whatever, Cas’ salary has been sufficient for two for a while, and it looks like three isn’t going to happen any time soon.  </p><p>

He hasn’t exactly be sat around with his thumb up his ass, because there was the whole household to do list that neither of them have touched for the better part of the last year, but he <em>is</em> sick to death of goddamn housework and being so <em>aware</em> of it all the time; of having to think about and cook every damn meal; of never quite being able to escape the awareness of the massive pile of laundry to do. It all feels a lot more warring and less <em>urgent</em> given that, in a technical sense, he has nothing else to do.  </p><p>

It’s been <em>okay</em>. If he had a goddamn choice in the matter, he and Cas would be battling out over who got to work from their scrubbed together little study and who had to conduct their working-from-home meetings from the kitchen table (he’d lose, but still) and he could join Castiel in the anti-video call brigade, but the whole thing has been better than he’d expected it to be. </p><p>

Still, ignoring all of that in favour of cheering up his lockdown-weary life partner is a worthy goal and Cas was supposed to start his lunch break a solid five minutes ago. </p><p>

His meeting is still dragging on, as Dean figured it would be, because Zacharah is a fucking asshat and responsible for basically every domestic he’s had with Cas in the past twelve months (and <em>maybe</em> Dean made the decision to cut Cas’ little renedzvous with his work colleagues short for the side benefit of pissing Zachariah off, but he’s low-key not allowed to leave his house and he’s gotta get his entertainment <em>somewhere</em>).  Dean cracks the door open anyway, walking in shirtless and wearing <em>‘those jeans’</em> (term officially coined by Cas) just to make a point.</p><p>

“Dean?” Castiel asks, turning from squinting at his laptop screen to look at him. “Are you okay?”</p><p>

“Yup. Grubs up, Sweetheart. Hey, Nora,” Dean says, shameless offering a grin at her, “Alfie. <em> Zach</em>.”</p><p>

“Dean,” Zachariah intones, “A pleasure, I’m sure.”</p><p>

“Sorry, folks,” Dean says, smoothing has hands over Cas’ shoulders and raising an eyebrow in Zachariah’s direction. “Going to have to steal my fiancé, here.”</p><p>

“We’re not finished.”</p><p>

“<em>Well</em>, Zach, if I remember rightly, Cas here is contracted for an hour lunch break, which you’ve booked meetings over, oh, four times this week. Guess we can put <em>all that overtime</em> into our holiday fund.” </p><p>

Zachariah exhales.</p><p>

“Well,”</p><p>

“I will send out the action points after lunch,” Cas says, as Dean makes a point of giving him an over exaggerated shoulder massage. “After which I will -”</p><p>

Dean drops a kiss under his earlobe.</p><p>

“ — get those numbers to you by close of play.”</p><p>

“Fine,” Zachariah says, “Make sure that you do, Castiel, or —”</p><p>

“He’ll do it,” Dean says, “Bye Zach,” he says, cheerfully, and shuts the laptop screen.</p><p>

“Was that really necessary?” Cas asks, half smiling as he turns to face him. </p><p>
“It really, really was,” Dean says, and kisses him again. “Come on, baby.”</p><p>
“I am not your car.” Cas deadpans, throwing a sideways glance at his laptop. “Shutting the laptop doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ve left the meeting.”</p><p>

“I know. That one was for the audience,” Dean winks.</p><p>

“So,” Cas says, “Food.”</p><p>
“No, actually,” Dean says, “Not for thirty five minutes.” </p><p>
“Then —-?” Castiel begins, then narrows his eyes, “Are you trying to distract me from my bad mood with sex?”</p><p>
“Usually works,” Dean shrugs. </p><p>
“You’re in a mood,” </p><p>
“Someone ordered a good day, with a side order of the good stuff.” </p><p>
“The good stuff being <em>you</em>,” Cas says, mouth curling up into a smile. “You are incorrigible.” </p><p>
“I am <em>not wearing any underwear</em>.” </p><p>
“Thirty five minutes,” Cas says, assessing him over the edge of his coffee cup like he’s only mildly interested. Dean bought him that coffee <em>four hours ago</em>, though, which lessens the believability of his ‘couldn’t care less’ shtick. Besides, in seven freaking years, Cas has yet to turn down the offer of sex. Especially in the middle of the damn day.  “Hmm. Is that enough time?” </p><p>
“Oh don’t you worry, hot stuff, I came prepared.” </p><p>
“Like a boy scout,” Cas returns. </p><p>
“Sure,” Dean says, “If said boy scout had a helluva lot of lube where the sun don’t shine.” </p><p>
“I <em>really</em> hope they muted me,” Cas says, voice dessert dry, still pretending he’s <em>not</em> finding this whole thing amusing. God, Dean loves this. Their back and forth has always been <em>so</em> damn easy and it’s addictive and lovely.  “I suppose,” he continues, setting down his coffee and stretching his back out like a cat, all languid lines, gorgeous and so, so hot. “If you <em>really</em> want to…” </p><p>

“Anything to get my pants back, dude.” </p><p>

“You’re very cute,” Cas says, standing up and heading for the door, “Coming?” </p><p>

“Man, I hope so,” Dean says, and Cas laughs, and so far his plan is going pretty damn well. </p><p>

*</p><p>

“What now?” Cas asks, stepping into their kitchen just after he’s emerged from his post work-shower with his hair wet, shirtless and the sort of gorgeous that Dean’s surprised he managed to (at least pretend to) ignore for the first few years of their friendship. </p><p>

“Now,” Dean says, looking up from his laptop (Castiel’s, accomondeered years ago) and taking a moment to check him out as obviously as possible, because Dean happens to work on the philosophy that leering at your fiance’ in the kitchen is a highly important part of maintaining a happy relationship. “You make me dinner.”</p><p>

Cas’ frown is almost comical.</p><p>

“Castiel’s traditional homemade pizza,”</p><p>

“But,” Cas says, leaning against the kitchen island and almost-pouting, “You --- I’ve been <em>working</em>.”</p><p>

“Yeah, and I’ve also been <em>cooking.</em> All the time,” Dean throws back, not looking up from his laptop, “Ain't your housewife.” </p><p>

It’s not actually about that, because Dean has no problem picking up the housework-slack given he’s, once again, unemployed (and he probably does most of it <em>anyway</em>, but he knew that when they were roommates and it’s not really an issue now), it’s just that Cas has been spending however many hours a day in his study, then relocating to the sofa for netflix and chill or netflix and blankly stare into space, or endlessly trawl through the internet getting angry at the world, and Dean’s pretty sure the guy would feel a helluva lot better if he actually <em>did something</em> with his time. </p><p>

They’ve <em>got</em> the time. Even with the fact that Cas has been working longer hours than ever, he’s still cut out a big chunk of commute and, apparently, a big chunk of time shaving and finding his own damn pants to wear, rather than stealing Dean’s. </p><p>

Dean’s been filling <em>his</em> time with all the house projects they said they were gonna do when they moved in, before two years disappeared in the foggy haze of nine till fives (or in Cas’ case, eight till sevens), being strung out and tired from long weeks and adulting, and none of it being exactly urgent. He’s fixed the squeaky hinges, painted the damn windows sills and started cutting back the disaster that was the garden they’ve done nothing with, with varying degrees of input from Cas. Between all that, he’s been dealing with the usual crap of laundry and cooking and making sure that he doesn’t get to the end of his to do list too quickly, because he’s pretty sure that all of this will feel a lot more grim if he runs out of things he wants to do. He spends an hour or so a day trawling through job listings with a degree of pessimism that would worry him if he pressed the bruise too hard and going for so many endless runs he’s probably in the best shape of his life. </p><p>

He wouldn’t <em>normally</em> claim that he was a posert boy for handling things well, but he’s pretty damn sure that, for once, he’s handling things a lot better than Cas. </p><p>

“Don’t perpetuate gender norms, Dean.”</p><p>

“Don’t try to weasel your way out of this, Asstiel.”</p><p>

“You promised me a <em>good day</em>.”</p><p>

“Cas,” Dean says, looking back up, “You know, in real life, you spent an hour in traffic, buy groceries on the way home and <em>then cook</em>, like twice a week.”</p><p>

“That’s factually inaccurate,” Cas says, but he’s heading to the fridge, anyway. “At least one of those times, you buy the groceries.”</p><p>

“You <em>like</em> cooking,” Dean says.</p><p>

“Debatable.”</p><p>
“You like cooking <em>pizza</em>,” Dean corrects, shutting the laptop screen as Cas gets too close for comfort and slipping off the stool. “Anyway,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around him from behind as Cas as he lays out his ingredients in the order he needs him like the adorable, nerdly little weirdo that Cas has always been, “Need you out of my way for a bit.”</p><p>

“Oh?” Cas asks, feigning nonchalance as Dean presses a kiss to the bolt of his jaw.</p><p>

“Yup,” Dean says, “You think two orgasms and a lasagna is all you’re getting today, you’re wrong.”</p><p>
“Really.”</p><p>
“So,” Dean says, swiping his laptop off the counter, “I’m borrowing your study. Text me when food’s ready.”</p><p>

“Only because you’re very good looking,” Cas throws back, with a hard deadpan that makes Dean’s chest tighten with affection.</p><p>

“Oh,” Dean adds, “And stay out of the garden.”</p><p>

*</p><p>

Dinner is good. </p><p>

Dean’s <em>always</em> loved Cas’ spicy chicken pizza and it’s even better consumed at the actual-table, and Cas looks a little pleased and a little more like himself than he has for a while, which sparks off this bone deep relief that would scare Dean if he wasn’t so used to it by now. He’s had a long time to come to terms with how deep this thing with Cas goes and… and they’re going to have a family and they’re going to <em>be</em> a family, and one day Cas will make this pizza for their kids and they’ll tell them about that year where freaking Starbucks shut and no one could buy any goddamn toilet roll. </p><p>

“Thank you,” Cas says, that fucking perfect little crease in his forehead as he looks down at the pizza like he’s <em>surprised</em> by it. “I don’t know how you always know what to do.”</p><p>

“This ain’t my first rodeo,”</p><p>

“Oh,” Cas says, “Did I <em>miss</em> the last pandemic you sat through?”</p><p>

“Always so damn literal,” Dean snorts, taking another swig of beer. “Look, man, I just know a thing or two ‘bout feeling kinda shitty, and stuff that <em>feels</em> like a good idea, but actually just traps you in your own damn head. And you’re always pretty smart about that,” Dean says, “You’re just not so hot at turning the introspection on yourself.”</p><p>

“That’s different, because that’s---” Cas begins, then cuts himself off and looks at him. “Dean ---”</p><p>

“--- that’s, whatever,” Dean interjects, because Dean doesn’t have a whole lot to say about any of that crap. He doesn’t normally acknowledge it at all, which is probably why Cas is looking at him like he’s about to bolt, and is torn between pressing some issue and letting it lie. “Point is, Cas, it’s <em>date night</em> and I think we’re both in need of some damn fun.”</p><p>

“Date night.”</p><p>

“Lockdown date night,” Dean says, “It’s been a while.”</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas says, watching him over the table with a not-smile, “It has.”</p><p>

“But first, I have something for you.” Dean says, slipping out of the room and grabbing the folder he’s been working on for most of the day from Cas’ study. </p><p>

Cas has taken the time to load up the dishwasher with the plates and liberate another couple of beers from the fridge, and Dean meets him halfway.</p><p>

“What---?” Cas begins, as Dean sets down the folder on the island.</p><p>

“I’m not gonna be pig-headed enough to say that it’s definitely gonna happen,” Dean says, “Because, yeah, I --- I don’t <em>know</em> if that asshole’s opinion is the one that matters or how they judge this shit, but,” Dean trails off, as Cas opens up the folder and distractedly dog-ears the corner of one of the leaflets.</p><p>

He hasn’t <em>really</em> done anything new, because they spent a lot of last year looking at all the stuff and working out how the hell any of it worked, given neither of them knew a single person who’d ever adopted a kid. There were verbal pros and cons lists and debates and Cas looked up stuff about legal fees and about whether either of them could get surrogacy to sit well with them. All he really did was <em>collate it</em> and cross reference it with the new version of their budget, where Dean’s not working but they also don’t spend any money on gas, or entertainment, or leaving the house, and print off and file the rest of their thoughts in a folder he nicked from Cas’s personal stationery collection. </p><p>

“We have options. Not loads of options, but they exist. We give it a year with this place, then we --- we try something new. I know we said we wanted to do the newborn adoption thing but, honestly man, I know the foster care adoption stuff is more complicated, but I think we could do it. I don’t care how we do it or how long it takes, I just wanna have a family with you and I ---- fuck, Cas, I <em> belive</em> it’s gonna happen.”</p><p>

Cas flicks through the pages, expression impassive.</p><p>

“And, hell, if all else fails, we move to California and try there.”</p><p>

“The cost of living in California is ---”</p><p>

“--- Cas,” Dean says, “I don’t care. I’ll sell my damn body if I have to.”</p><p>
“I don’t think that would look good on the adoption application,” Cas says mildly.</p><p>
“Then I’ll mobilise the woke masses to the plight of a gay sex worker being denied the right to parent.”</p><p>
“You’re not gay,”</p><p>
“Even better,” Dean says, “Castiel.” </p><p>
“I love you,” Cas says, setting down the folder and looking up at him with those blue, blue eyes. “Dean.”</p><p>

“I love you too,” Dean says, steady, reaching forward to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of Cas’ neck, because the guy needed a haircut weeks ago, and it’s irresistible. And… he <em>knew</em> this was getting to him, but Dean’s beginning to work out that this stuff goes a lot deeper than Dean necessarily realised. “And this is gonna happen for us. Have a little faith.”</p><p>

“I do,”</p><p>

“But you were --- you were excited.”</p><p>
“I was naive,” Cas says, voice low, gravel rich, “Sometimes I forget that… There are a lot of people in the world that have a lot of opinions about our relationship.” </p><p>
“There are assholes everywhere,”</p><p>
“Yes, Dean, there are,” Cas says, “And some of them work at adoption agencies and some of them work for the state and some of them get to make decisions about our life. I just —- I think I was spoiled with my family and college and my employer who, while, yes, has poor boundaries, have never been remotely homophobic.  You were expecting this.”</p><p>

“I, yeah,” Dean says, “Kinda.”</p><p>

“You have always been wiser to the reality,”</p><p>

“Yeah,” Dean says, “‘Cause I bought a lot of that crap about being into dick being some inane character flaw, or it being intrinsically tied to all this other stuff about me. <em>You’re</em> the one that taught me that the only damn thing it means is that I’m attracted to Dr Sexy and Dr Pretty, and that’s really no one else’s freaking business but mine, and them, if they were that kinda thing, and not fictional, and if I wasn’t gonna marry you.”</p><p>

“I have been lucky,” Cas frowns, “Intellectually, I knew that, but --- You can’t fix everything by having a reasoned discussion, Dean. You can’t <em>reason with hate</em>. I thought ---- I think I believed that if I was informed enough about the psychology of prejudice and educated enough people then I could defeat it, but this… this is outside of my control, and I can’t do anything, and it scares me.” </p><p>

Dean exhales and coaxes Cas in closer with a hand on his hip, settling into his personal space and just <em>looking at him</em>. </p><p>

“It’s been a couple of months,” Dean says, soft, low, “In the middle of a fucking pandemic. Cas, it hasn’t even happened yet. It might <em>not</em>. I get… I get why you’re freaked and all of this happening when you’re locked in our damn house with our empty bedrooms is a lot but, the thing is, <em>even if it doesn’t happen</em>, you’re still the love of my damn life and it will still be my fucking priviledge to spend the rest of my life with you. We’ll get a damn dog and grow old together and spend all our savings on <em>us</em> rather than college funds and it will <em>still</em> be awesome. I feel really freaky certain --- even with all the homophobic dickbags in the world --- that this is gonna happen, at <em> some point</em>, but if it doesn’t, then we’ll deal with it, and I’ll still love you, and we’ll still have a kick ass life full of oral sex and pizza and beer and watching the damn TV cuddled up on the couch, and we’ll <em>still</em> be sickeningly happy, capiche?” </p><p>

“I capiche,” Cas smiles, one of those ones that creeps at the edges of his lips and takes over his whole face. It’s a good smile. He’s known Castiel for over nine years and winning those smiles still feels like a complete win, every time. “Thank you. You --- you are a remarkable and surprising man, Dean Winchester.”</p><p>

“That’s what I put on my resume,” Dean throws back, easily, “You gonna be okay?”</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas says, leaning forward to kiss him, briefly, “Now, tell me about date night.” </p><p>

“Easier if I show you,” Dean says, grabbing a couple more beers from the fridge, before nodding at Cas to follow him outside. </p><p>

He’s not really sure <em>why</em> he decided that now would be an A+ time to recreate their misspent youth, except for the fact that Cas has been working hard, and Dean’s spent way too much time thinking about adult-shit like mortgages and gloss paint and different kinds of lawn mowers, and if all goes well they’ll have a kid, someday, and then they won’t able to use some innocuous Friday night to recreate their college years.</p><p>

“I don’t understand what I’m looking at.” Cas frowns, which is fair. They didn’t exactly have the equipment, so Dean improvised with a fold out garden table they found in the shed when they moved in, that Dean sanded down and painted up the week after he lost his job. He decided it wouldn’t really be the same without a net, so he’s fashioned one out of a roll of kitchen foil, tape and a couple of bits of wood leftover from fixing the fence.  It doesn’t <em>look</em> like a whole lot of anything, except maybe an indication that Dean’s had way too much time on his hands.</p><p>

“This,” Dean says, flipping over the paper cups to reveal a table tennis ball, “Is DIY beer pong.”</p><p>

“You --- you made a table tennis table.”</p><p>

He probably doesn’t deserve the expression of wonder that’s written all over Cas’ face, but he rarely deserves the affection that Cas carelessly pours out on him, like it’s free and easy, and like Dean’s the easiest guy on the planet to love. </p><p>

“Lockdown, baby,” Dean grins, “Starin’ with beer pong, then we’re playing drinking draughts, and shots poker.”</p><p>

“This is your suggestion,” Cas says, smiling widely as Dean starts laying out cups, “That we’re going to get drunk playing college drinking games.” </p><p>

“Was gonna set up spin the bottle, too,” Dean grins, “But felt like a weird ass way to overcomplicate making out with you.”</p><p>

“Seven minutes in heaven,”</p><p>

“Not getting back in the closet, man, even for you,” Dean says, “Even if that’s <em>one</em> way I might finally be able to get your coat in the fucking coat cupboard.”</p><p>

Cas laughs, bright and lovely, as he starts laying out his own cups.</p><p>

“You do remember that you suck at this game.”</p><p>

“I don’t <em>suck</em>,” Dean says, “It’s just one of those things you’re freakishly good at.”</p><p>
“Like bowling.”</p><p>
“Yeah, like bowling.”</p><p>
“And poker.”</p><p>
“Don’t push your luck, asshat,” Dean throws back, pushing another beer to Cas’ side of the table for him to fill up the rest of his cups. “Last time we played you were lucky.”</p><p>
“I beat you with a high card of six, Dean.”</p><p>
“I ever tell you you’re a crappy winner?” Dean says.</p><p>
“Yes,” Cas says, “The first time we played this game, when we were freshman, and you lost four times in a row.”</p><p>
“<em>Man</em> I was hungover the next day.”</p><p>
“I would expect so,” Cas says, “Given that we were playing with whisky rather than beer.”</p><p>
“Let’s never do that again,”</p><p>
“You went home with that irritating woman from your psych class.”</p><p>
“Yeah,” Dean says, “Only cause you hooked up with freaking Balthazar.” </p><p>
“Ah, young love,” Cas says, “We were very stupid back then.”</p><p>
“Understatement,” Dean snorts, “Got my man in the end, though.”</p><p>
“So it seems.”</p><p>
“Think fast,” Dean says, chucking the ball over in Cas’s direction. Predictably, Cas watches it sail past his left shoulder without so much as moving a muscle to try and catch it, leaving it to disappear in the grass that looks like it needs cutting all over again. “Man, I can’t believe you’re the reigning beer pong champion. Freaking liberty.”</p><p>

“Perhaps you misunderstood the game,” Cas says, bending down to pick up the ball, “But you don’t have to catch, Dean, you have <em> to throw</em>.”</p><p>
“We’ll see if you’re this satisfied with yourself after this.”</p><p>
“Are you sure you want me to go first?” Cas asks, deliberately mild.</p><p>
“Just take your shot, douchebag.”</p><p>
“Allright,” Cas says and, of fucking course, his ball bounces directly into the front cup. Being the perfect, sarcastic little shit that he’s always been, Cas practically <em>preens</em> with satisfaction as Dean wipes the ball dry on his jeans and drains the first cup and, god, Dean loves him.</p><p>

 “Have we played this since we were legally allowed to drink?” Cas asks, as Dean eyes the cups across the table.</p><p>
“Dunno,” Dean says, “Maybe not. That --- that party Garth threw. When was that?”</p><p>
“Hmm,” Cas says, “I don’t remember.”</p><p>
“Hah,” Dean says, as his ball bounces off the edge of the front cup and into the one directly behind it, “Looks like I <em>don’t</em> suck.”</p><p>
“Is this what you’ve been doing while I’ve been at work?” Cas asks, “Practicing beer pong?”</p><p>
“Nope, been washing your damn underwear, you ungrateful asshat.”</p><p>
“I am very grateful,” Cas throws back, squinting at Dean’s cups again. “So grateful that I will treat you to another beer.”</p><p>
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, knocking back another cup with a grin. </p><p>

“You having fun yet?” Dean asks, when he’s down to <em>one measly fucking cup</em>, while Cas --- still wearing a pair of Dean’s sweat pants, it should be noted -- smirks in front of the three that Dean’s yet to get anywhere close too. They haven’t done anything this <em>dumb</em> and just… fun for a while and… and it’s a beautiful, hot, summer evening, and Dean’s having the best damn time, even if he can’t speak for Cas.</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas smiles, as Dean’s ball ricochets off the edge of the edge of the cup and flies back towards him, nearly hitting him the damn face. </p><p>

The fact of the matter is, Cas is better at this than him, and it’s not till the fourth game that Dean gets even close to success. By then, some of the heat has bled out of the day, giving way to a temperature that’s a little more comfortable, and he’s drunk enough beer that he’s pleasantly buzzed.  
Even then it’s only due to a fluke and a well timed gust of wind in Dean’s favour but, whatever, he’ll take what he can get.</p><p>

“You’re doing well.”</p><p>

“Can the tone of surprise, buddy.”</p><p>

“I think you mean, future hubby.”</p><p> 

“Can’t believe you just said that to me,” Dean mutters, drinking his latest cup of beer slowly. They’re getting a little warm, now, and Dean kind of wishes they’d kept the spares in the fridge. <em>Hubby.</em></p><p>

“Husband.”</p><p>

“Not yet,” Dean says.</p><p> 

“One day,” </p><p>

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking aim, “Damn straight, one day.”</p><p>

“Forget shots,” Cas says, right as Dean’s about to throw, “I vote strip poker.” </p><p>

And, obviously, he freaking misses. </p><p>

*</p><p>

On balance, the hangover is worth it, but that doesn’t mean he feels all the good about it when he wakes up to Cas crawling out of the bed they’ve shared for the past however many years. He rolls over and buries the ache behind his eyes into the pillow, and next thing he’s properly aware of, Cas is back in bed, and everything smells like coffee.</p><p>

“Ngh.” Dean mutters into the pillow.</p><p>

“Hello Dean,”</p><p>

“Morning sunshine,” Dean says, turning to face the ceiling. “You sound a lot more chirper than I feel.”</p><p>

“You did lose six rounds of poker.”</p><p>
“Stopped counting after the third,” Dean says, sitting up gingerly. He doesn’t feel as bad as expected, actually, given that strip poker was a pretty quick game, given they both started out shirtless and sockless because of the heat. After Dean was down to his boxers, they instituted a shot-or-strip rule, and Dean’s too damn old to drink tequila. It’s blurs into one heady, alcohol fulled haze after that, though he’s pretty sure that Cas got them to play spin the bottle after all, and they wound up drunkenly half-pawing at each other in bed, too liquored up for sex, but just the right amount for handsy spooning and heartfelt accalades. </p><p>

Cas drank plenty too, but certainly not as much as Dean. They had <em>fun</em>, proper gut-laugher and lightness, the kind that Dean’s not sure they’ve had for a while, and watching Cas play some dumbass game like the adult serious-ness of this past couple of months and all the decisions they’ve making had been temporarily shook out of him was a freaking benediction. The guy looked <em>happy and light</em> as he triumphantly kicked his ass at poker so, yeah, the hangover was definitely freaking worth it.

“You bought me coffee.”</p><p>

“I did.” </p><p>
“Damn, you’re awesome.”</p><p>
“You’re easily pleased when hungover.”</p><p>

“Tastes like something died in my mouth.”</p><p>

“Your dignity, perhaps.”</p><p>

Dean half grunts in response and pulls himself out of bed, pinching the part of his forehead that’s aching as he stumbles to the bathroom. </p><p>

He needs to shave, really. Cas likes him clean shaven and that’s generally enough reason for him to keep doing it, even though Cas has never exactly <em>asked him</em> to (Cas is just stubborn enough about that kind of thing that he’d never ask, even though he’s tolerate keeping his peach fuzz at various points for Dean’s benefit), bu…. His <em>head hurts</em>.</p>
<p>

“M’ freakin’ gross,” Dean comments after he’s slumped back into bed, after the exact minimum requirement of taking a leak, brushing his teeth to take away that stale alcohol taste, and dry swallowing some painkillers for his head. “Did we —- when d’you put the ac on?”</p><p>

“Around 4am,” Cas says, “We forgot.”</p><p>

“Man, I need to shower. So freaking hot.”</p><p>

“The weather’s supposed to break tomorrow.”</p><p>
“Finally,” Dean says, claiming his coffee and grimacing a little at the coffee toothpaste combination, which is still an improvement on before.  “You — you sleep okay?”</p><p>

“Hmm. The heat woke me up,” Cas says, “But until then. How are you feeling?”</p><p>

“Like I lost six rounds of shot poker,”</p><p>
“And five games of beer pong,”</p><p>
“Urgh,” Dean says, rolling into Cas’ space to rest his head on his stomach. He is objectively pretty disgusting right now, but Cas has shared a bed with him when he had the flu, held him in the aftermath of losing John Winchester and has no issue with kissing him right after he’s come back from his run. They’re past that.</p><p>

“You’re very charming,” Cas says, distractedly running his fingers through Dean’s hair. </p><p>

“It’s my perky nipples,” Dean mumbles into Cas’s skin.</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas deadpans, “That is the only reason I fell for you.”</p><p>

“You’re---- you’re going over the adoption stuff, then,” Dean says, nodding at the folder on Cas’ knees.</p><p>

“I was,” Cas says, shutting it deliberately and setting it aside. “But I’d rather talk to you.” </p>
<p>
“Cool,” Dean exhales, “Not sure I’m at the peak of my conversational capacity but, sure. Let’s talk.”</p>
<p>
“Even hungover and half asleep, I would rather speak to you than anyone else,” Cas says, painfully sincere in that Cas-way, where he can make those kind of declarations like their as easy as breathing, when he’s practically illiterate about talking about his other non Dean-related feelings. “We haven’t argued.”</p><p>

“Hm?”</p><p>

“In lockdown,” Cas continues. His voice is sleep-rough and deeper than normal, which probably means he’s not feeling at the top of his game either. “Gabriel asked whether we were at each other’s throats yet, but… we haven’t. Argued.”</p>

<p>

“No more than normal.”</p><p>

“Dean, we have been locked in the same house as each other <em>for months</em> and it has been <em>fine</em>,” Cas says, “You organised <em>date night</em> and made me a folder and fixed the fence.”</p><p>

“I,” Dean begins, trying to pick up Cas’ thread of thought with the dull, throbbing ache in his head, “Yeah, I guess. I mean --- we’re pretty needy, Cas. More or less every fight we’ve ever had has been about us not spending enough time together. Maybe this is just our kind of national emergency.”</p><p>
“That’s inaccurate,” Cas says, “In our first fight, you said you wanted space. And <em>the</em> fight.”</p>
<p>
“Yeah, but I was talking out of my ass,” Dean says, “I --- never really wanted space from you. Don’t get me wrong, I wanna --- wanna see Sammy and wanna go to freaking walmart without wearing a damn mask, but I am not gonna complain about you being around for more hours of the day.”</p><p>
“<em>All</em> hours of the day, Dean,” Cas implores, “I enjoyed yesterday very much.”</p><p>
“Good.”</p><p>
“And,” Cas says, “Dean, you’re right.”</p><p>
“Awesome,” Dean says, “‘bout anything in particular?”</p><p>
“Yes,” Cas says, “About many things, up to and including me cooking and actually enjoying spending time with you at my breaks, and about our future and about <em>date night</em>.”</p><p>
“You’re planning date night next week,”</p><p>
“Allright,” Cas agrees, “I’ll think of something. You’re —- you’re very happy, at the moment.”</p><p>

“Yeah,” Dean says. “This is… the happiest I’ve ever been in my damn life. Maybe that’s dumb, given the world’s a goddamn mess and --- I really liked that job but, I dunno,” Dean trails off, as Cas’ fingers brush over his forehead, skating over the worst of his headache, “I guess ---  look, Cas, all this stuff…. There’s nothing I can <em>do</em> about any of this crap. About the adoption and this job stuff, and freaking coronavirus. It’s out of my hands and…. Guess I’m okay with that. And, anyway, feels like I spent a lot of the last couple of years unhappy, with Dad and everything... and I ---- I’m through with it. Through with not just…. just relishing being in love with you and building our lives together, even if the rest of the damn world is a mess.”</p><p>

“I’ll do better,” Cas says, very seriously, “You are <em>exceptional</em>, Dean, at looking after me and -- and drawing me out of my head with day sex and very romantic college drinking games, and --- yes. You’re right about that, too. There is no one else in the world that I would want to be on lockdown with.”</p><p>

“Forget how freakin’ sappy hangovers made you,”</p><p>
“I won’t allow your aversion to chick flick moments won’t detract from my moment, Dean.”</p><p>
“Good,” Dean says, “And I love you too.”</p><p>
“We should paint the fence,” Cas says, in the same serious way that he said everything else and Dean smiles and shifts to bury his face more into Cas’ skin. “The weather is supposed to break tomorrow and --- I have been remiss in my participation on the to-do list.”</p><p>
“Not like I haven’t had the time,” Dean says, “But okay, let’s paint the fence. Just --- <em>later</em>, okay?” </p><p>
“Do you want more coffee?”</p><p>
“So goddamn much,” Dean says, sitting up to allow Cas to extract himself from their bed and head for the stairs. </p><p>
He takes a moment to check his phone (that he <em>somehow</em> remembered to plug in, unless Cas did it when he got up earlier) and drop a message on the Winchester-Singer-Harvelle family whatsapp about their standing evening video call, and to send Charlie the picture he took of his fake beer-pong creation, before he abandons the damn thing to test out moving his head.</p><p>

It’s better. The painkillers are starting to help, some.</p><p>

“Here,” Cas says, a deep-voice, fucking gorgeous walking miracle, wandering back into their bedroom with both coffee and water. </p><p>
“Someone sexting you?” Dean asks, as Cas sits down on top of the covers and absently smiles at his phone.</p><p>
“Nora,”</p>
<p>
“Uhuh. What’s she wearing?”</p><p>
“Hmm? Oh,” Cas says, “It’s about work.”</p><p>
“It’s <em>Saturday</em>.”</p><p>
“Well observed,” Cas says, “She’s a single mother with no current access to childcare facilities, so she’s attempting to make up her hours whenever the baby is asleep.”</p><p>
“Wow,” Dean says, “<em>That</em> sounds like a fucking riot.”</p><p>
“Yes,” Cas says, “In the grand scheme of things, I am aware I have very little to complain about.”</p><p>
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Dean says, “Just cause someone else is <em>also</em> in pain, don’t mean yours isn’t real.”</p><p>
“I know,” Cas says, “She was letting me know my <em>polite suggestion</em> to HR that they should anonymise the names on job applications is being adopted.”</p><p>
“Say what now?”</p><p>
“Having a white sounding name yields as many more callbacks as an additional eight years of experience,” Cas says, “So ---”</p><p>
“--- blind applicants means fuck you racist bullshit,”</p><p>
“Yes,” Cas smiles, as Dean drops his phone to thread their fingers together, “Well, some of it at least. And they are making unconscious bias training compulsory.”</p><p>
“Huh. Maybe you <em>can</em> educate hate away.” </p><p>
“Perhaps,” Cas says, that expression like he’s pleased but trying not to be too obvious about it blossoming all over his face and, god, Dean loves him, with his eternal causes, and his quasi-optimism and his absolute unwillingness to take any bullcrap. As a teenager, Cas was <em>great</em>, but Dean’s so damn proud of him as this late-twenties, real life freaking <em>adult</em>, even if Dean hates his damn job.</p><p>

“You’re a badass,” Dean says, “And <em>polite suggestion</em> my ass.”</p><p>
“I <em>was</em> polite.”</p><p>
“You fuckin’ killed it,” Dean says, “God, you’re so freaking <em>great</em>.”</p><p>
“I love you,”</p><p>
“Back atcha, hotstuff,” </p><p>
“I’m going to get up,”</p><p>
“Nah,” Dean says, “Stay here.”</p><p>
“I need to shower,” Cas says, without any real conviction. “And I need <em>to shave</em>.”</p>
<p>
“Bye bye lockdown beard, huh?” Dean says, taking another sip of his coffee and smiling at him like a total lovestruck, dumbass. “I’ll miss it.”</p><p>

“It’s <em>inconvenient</em>.”</p><p>
“You’re fucking beautiful either way, so whatever,” Dean says.</p><p>
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, setting down his phone and standing up. “Do you want me to make breakfast, after I’ve showered?”</p><p>
“Breakfast in bed? Hell fucking yeah,” Dean says. He watches as Cas stands up and stretches, picking up the folder with the adoption information like it’s some precious object and places it on their bed side table. It kind of is, really; this inanimate object that carries all this <em>weight</em> of dreams they half-whispered about in the dead of night with dumb smiles all over their faces and in the back of his mind as he’s doing another load of laundry in the middle of a weekday and trying to imagine what it would be life if he was fitting this in between <em>childcare</em>. Their life is already pretty damn great, but <em>there’s so much more</em> that he wants for them. </p><p>

 “And, Cas,” Dean says, as Cas pauses in the doorway and looks back at him, fond and familiar, “Find some of your own damn pants to wear.” </p>
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